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Memoirs & Diaries - Delville Wood

Delville Wood is a name,
even now, full of sadness and the suppressed agony of thousands who had to
make its acquaintance. Probably nearly as many men remained in it as
came out of it whole, and no one fortunate to escape from this hell can
think of it without recalling hours of suffering and the names of many good
comrades now no more.

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Towards the end of September 1916 there seemed to be a lull in the Battle of
the Somme. The glory of the first great achievements had somewhat
faded with the realization of their cost and the doubtful value of their
gains. One supposed that the High Command knew what they were doing,
though even that is doubtful now.

Most of us hoped that the lull meant a discontinuance of the battle, which
seemed a hopeless hammering at a resourceful enemy in one of his strongest
sectors. It was, however, not for us to argue why the strong rather
than the weak positions were always to be attacked.

Anyhow our battalion, which
had previously been in the line in front of Guillemont, moved into Delville
Wood to take over the line on the eastern edge of the wood. The
journey, as usual, began soon enough to bring us into the danger zone about
dusk and was a nightmare. We were led by guides who had hardly been
able to leave the front line and were hopeless, while landmarks had long ago
been blown out of existence.

Every semblance of a trench
seemed full of dead-sodden, squelchy, swollen bodies. Fortunately the
blackening faces were invisible except when Verey lights lit up the
indescribable scene. Not a tree stood whole in that wood.

The weary tramp in single file went on for about three hours. Men
carried heavy loads of equipment, bombs, rifle ammunition, Lewis guns,
petrol tins of water, gas helmets, and so on. How they cursed as they
one after the other collided with some obstacle or fell flat on a dead body.
"Pass it along when you're all up," "Mind the wire," "Mind the hole on the
left" - interspersed with humorous though trite remarks as to the first five
years being the worst.

Eventually, after much searching, but without serious mishap, we found our
sector: Two companies of the battalion were in front and two in support some
distance back. Battalion Headquarters lay behind the wood. "C"
Company, in which I had charge of a platoon, was on the right flank in a
shallow, incomplete depression shown on the map as Edge Trench, its name
indicating its position skirting the wood.

By this time it was just after midnight and all was fairly quiet. As
far as we knew there was no particular cause for alarm. The officers
and senior N.C.O.'s had got the hang of things and knew roughly the position
of the other troops in the neighbourhood and of the enemy, who seemed quite
a good distance away immediately in front, though away to the right he was
considerably closer to the line.

I was at the time twenty-one years of age, my company commander twenty-two,
but we had both had a good deal of experience - sufficient to realize that
in case of anything like a bombardment a position on the edge of a very well
known wood would be no fun. Hence we decided to push forward.
Each platoon would send a strong section some fifty to one hundred yards
ahead to dig itself in. If we were left in peace a night or two, our
men, nearly all miners, would join up the posts and make a continuous and
less clearly defined front line. So the detached posts went out.

The wished-for peace was not for us, unfortunately. At 2 a.m. the
officers met the company commander in the one and only dug-out to discuss
"work done and work proposed" for the daily return, and to look at some
preliminary orders for a rather big advance three days ahead.

After
that I was temporarily off duty, but I had no sooner settled myself in the
dug-out for what I considered a well-earned "shut-eye" till stand-to before
dawn, when pandemonium broke out.

It was soon apparent that something very unpleasant was about to happen, so
we stood to arms, groused a good deal, and waited. The waiting was
always the hardest part of it all. The hours till 6 a.m. seemed
terribly long, but our casualties had not been more than fifteen all told.
The worst of it was that the wounded and even the runners, stout fellows
though they were, could not get away or reach Headquarters with our tale of
woe.

Just about six o'clock the Germans came on. They never approached
closer than 150 yards from our trench and they made an excellent target for
Lewis guns and lost heavily. By 8.30 I heard that the company
commander was out of action, though not seriously wounded. Then came
the even more serious news that my fellow subaltern had been killed on the
right, where the enemy had forced an entrance.

The battalion on the right had also been forced to abandon their line.
This left me very much alone, with between but fifty and sixty men who could
use a rifle. Some of these were wounded, but any escape from the
trench was out of the question.

By 9 a.m. there was comparative peace, except in our minds when we grasped
the seriousness of the situation. It seemed that the left had also
broken and that our two depleted companies were in the blue. The left
company had fared better than we. On our right the Germans and we
shared a trench - only a narrow barrier separating us from them.
Moreover, this barrier was on the wrong side of Company Headquarters, which,
with our greatcoats, food, and orders, was lost to us.

The only thing to do was to strengthen the barrier as best we could and lie
low. There would probably be dirty work at that barrier later on.

Conditions in the wood were now worse than ever. Most of us felt sick
and ill even when unwounded. Food and water were very short and we had
not the faintest idea when any more would be obtainable.

By the end of the next day several, including myself, had dysentery, and
that in a ghastly battered trench with no prospect of medical attention.
After all, we stood and lay on putrefying bodies and the wonder was that the
disease did not finish off what the shells of the enemy had started.

The day was, in fact, uneventful; but as evening drew on we again prepared
for the fray. It was not to be supposed that the success of the enemy
would not be pushed home, and, as far as we could tell, only two weak
companies stood between them and the possession of Delville Wood.

Sure enough, the attack
began at dusk and again it lasted for three hours. This time it was no
frontal attack across the open but a determined push down the shared trench
and behind in the shelter of the stumps of trees.

It is difficult, and
even a week later it was difficult, to recall those three hours.

It is only on Armistice Day that I can live them again; but I don't want
tell anyone about it. There was hand-to-hand fighting with knives,
bombs, and bayonets; cursing and brutality on both sides such as men can be
responsible for when it is a question of "your life or mine"; mud and filthy
stench; dysentery and unattended wounds; shortage of food and water and
ammunition.

The fighting ceased and a curiously fitful peace settled over the scene.
In some ways fighting was preferable - one's mind was distracted.
Inactivity in such surroundings was harder than risking one's life.
For an hour or two that night I lay on a board in a bay of the trench and
slept.

But an hour before dawn we were at it again, getting ready for the expected
onslaught at daybreak. Why this did not come I have never been able to
make out. There was no reason at all why the wood should not have been
recaptured completely, especially as, on looking through our supplies, we
could not muster more than 500 rounds of rifle ammunition and thirty bombs.

By this time I was getting beyond effective command, but my senior sergeant
was still very much alive and as aggressive as ever. His suggestion
was that we should take a big risk as no attack appeared to be developing
and have a shot at regaining Company Headquarters. I am afraid that
the object of the projected operation was food rather than secret orders.
Four others volunteered to see what could be done, and before dawn was far
advanced we peeped carefully over the barrier half-expecting something
unpleasant.

One German was asleep on a
fire-step five or six yards from us, and there was not a sign of activity.
In these circumstances we agreed to risk it. I, being armed with a revolver,
was to act as a sort of advanced guard while the others were to trail behind
with bombs and bayonets to deal with any opposition.

The essential factor for success was quietness - no bomb throwing or
shooting except as a last resource. Nothing but a bayonet was in fact
necessary, much to our amazement. Some half-dozen weary and comatose
Germans were quietly and expeditiously removed from the active list, and
Company Headquarters was gained in safety.

Yet there were no reprisals. Apparently no German officer or N.C.O.
came round, and to our joy we were able unmolested to move the best part of
our barrier to a point 50 yards beyond the Headquarters dug-out. We
found all the officers' kit, food, and orders intact, but neatly packed up
as though for removal.

The mystery of this non-interference is unexplained and I can only surmise
that a few tired troops had got left behind, although the main forces of the
enemy had for some reason or other been withdrawn. All that day not a
shot was fired, though our nerves had gone almost to pieces and we were sure
we should be amply repaid for our early morning escapade.

But no word came from the outside world, which seemed very remote, until
about four o'clock in the afternoon. At that hour a British aeroplane
appeared flying low and calling for signals. With great joy we sent up
our flares to indicate our position. I have always wanted to thank
that airman. He must have taped us out with great accuracy, because
when an hour later our own guns opened fire and put a box barrage round us,
not a single shell fell in our lines.

This bombardment meant that an attack was being launched in order to get us
out and at dusk the attack came. A whole brigade of infantry, well
supported by artillery, had been put in to restore the line, and they did it
splendidly despite the heavy shelling of the enemy, especially on the thick
areas through which they had advanced.

Gradually we were able to
slip away. I had now pronounced dysentery and was helped by two men.
We were all so far gone and so tired that we never hesitated to rest when
and where we felt inclined, shelling or no shelling. I called at
Battalion Headquarters and reported as best I could what had happened.
The "powers-that-be" were most complimentary on the work of the company and
the adjutant's "Well done, 'C' Company!" made up for a good deal.

After a wretched night in a dug-out in Montauban I went down sick, glad to
be out of things for a bit, but rather conscience-stricken at such an
inglorious departure; a wound would have been much more satisfying.

Some weeks later I received a chatty letter from the adjutant, who told me a
touching story. He asked if I remembered the posts we had sent out in
front the night we occupied Edge Trench. It came as rather a shock to
find that I had, indeed, in all that confusion and scrapping forgotten them.
He went on to say that two days after we had been relieved the new people
had discovered a section of my platoon still doing the job they had been
sent out to do.

The Corporal and his men had been out there for four days with no food other
than emergency rations, but they had remained interested spectators of a
good deal of the fighting, though in their exposed position they dared not
move much.

The relieving company
commander told them about the relief, and said they had better clear out.

To this the corporal
replied that he had no intention of moving without a personal or written
order from one of his own officers. This order the adjutant had
supplied.

Captain S. J. Worsley. Gazetted, aged nineteen, North Staffordshire
Regt., August 1914. Served with 1st Battalion North Staffordshire
Regt., 1915, and most of 1916, in France. Awarded Military Cross,
1916; Bar to Cross, 1916, for incident contained in narrative. Served
4th Battalion North Staffordshire Regt., 1917, and up to end of September
1918, in France. Awarded second Bar to M.C. after great retreat, March
1918. Awarded D.S.O., and mentioned in despatches in respect of
advance round Hill 60 and the Bluff, September 1918, when was wounded by
bullet through both lungs.